Autobots, Assemble! Series 1
by MiniKoontzy
Summary: "They're good people, Prime. I'm not denying that. But these people've had...problems with machines and aliens before. And alien machines. Keep your distance." An investigation into New York's colorful cast of crusaders results in a clash between Avenger, Decepticon, and Autobot, and an alliance soon forms despite the protests of a government liaison. The rework is here!
1. Chapter 1: Road Rage

**Autobots, Assemble! Series 1 Rework**

Chapter 1: Road Rage

* _Note: Here we go with the rework (and my New Year's resolution)! I'm changing a few things in tone, word choice and aesthetics to show how much I've improved as a writer since I first started out. But don't worry_ – _I'm keeping many aspects from book one, namely the slightly more humorous yet still serious when it needs to be tone that I tried (and probably in hindsight failed to mimic) in the original book one. You'll notice much less abruptness and more fluidity in the way the story goes. For some chapters as well I will put meaningful quotes from different Marvel characters (either made up or otherwise) that may or may not actually pop up later in the series. Consider them "arc quotes." The rework will also feature more emphasis on the Autobot side of things, as the rework of the second book will focus more on the human side of things. Perspectives will also be used properly, whereas before I was kind of acting as an all-knowing narrator. Some characters will know things, others won't. However, I am keeping the all-knowing narrator for this intro bit, though it's not me.  
_

 _And instead of naming them "books" I've taken to calling them "series," and they will contain a few mini-arcs with the two teams that appeared in EMH: Avengers and Fantastic Four. These chapters will also be much longer than the ones in the original, more along the length of book two's chapters or those in NotB, and I'll be starting a bit further back than last time so I have some interesting lead up but I'm also going to try to go the route of book two and create unique "episodes" because book one stuck pretty well to season two of Prime and the end of season one for EMH while also sticking in some actual episode stuff. Hopefully my pre-planning and writing class pays off...  
_

 _But I've gabbed on enough. Let's get this ball rolling people! :D  
_

* * *

 _"For every one of us, there seem to be ten of them._ "

– Daredevil (Marvel Heroes)

* * *

 ** _THE DAILY BUGLE_**

 _April 24, 2015.  
_

 ** _ARE SUPERHEROES A THREAT?_**

 _To live in New York is to live in a city never at rest. Subways, taxis, motorcycles, bicycles, and trucks clog its streets while jets and other aircraft rumble and roar through the skies, the S.H.I.E.L.D Helicarrier's mighty engines turning their own into feeble whines whenever present. Its people, too, are almost always on the move. They swarm on the sidewalks and in the streets like a nest of ants, always marching to or from somewhere else. Jobs, shopping, visiting friends, going out of town_ _ _– there's always someplace to be._ Of course, not all those in motion have good motivations. Crime is as much a problem in New York's many boroughs as it is in any large metropolis. Muggers and thieves, killers and liars – they are blessedly simple compared to the cast of dangerous malefactors that operate within the city and beyond. Through covert deals shrouded in mysticism and official corruption, the Hand and the Maggia toil away in the shadows. But staying hidden in a city of almost two million takes finesse and practice, and most criminals are unable (or unwilling) to follow those finer points of their occupations. Hydra, A.I.M, the Sinister Six, the Brotherhood, the U-Foes, the Serpent Society ___–_ a mere handful of the villainy plaguing our city _ – _are unafraid to act overtly._

 _And those are mere human threats._

 _Something about our city draws in weird and dangerous like moths to a streetlamp. Time-traveling conquerors, renegade Asgardians, aliens, monsters, extra-dimensionals, sorcerers – sooner or later they come here. To New York. Whatever reason drove them that day, it drives them here. Some say they come here because of population; more casualties in larger cities. Some say they come here to remove threats to their power_ _– heroes_ _– before moving on. It's no secret our city has them crawling out of the woodwork. Then again, the super-villains are doing the same. Every time we turn around, another has appeared, or escaped, or caused havoc. I hold nothing against our police officers, or S.H.I.E.L.D. They are brave men and women who do their utmost to protect us from these threats._

 _But they aren't enough. The only way to stop a big gun is to have a shield big enough to stop it. That's what superheroes are: shields. Protectors.  
_

 _Yes, they are, according to the law, vigilantes_ – _but they should not, in my opinion, be arrested. Do you arrest a civilian for leaping in to assist in a fire rescue? Do you arrest a civilian for trying to protect a shooting target? They're not doing it for the fame. They aren't doing it because they expect to be paid. They do it because they have an inherent drive to assist. They feel obligated to step in. Like our friendly neighborhood wall-crawler always says: "With great power comes great responsibility." Police can't handle an attack by the Wrecking Crew. They can't handle an assault by a mad sorcerer, or an Asgardian, or an alien symbiote possessing someone. They don't have the means to adequately fight back. Our officers are lucky such monsters think so little of their resistance that they do not bother to kill them on the spot.  
_

 _Heroes are a necessity for our safety these days. Like any necessity, there is going to be risk involved. There will be conflicts. No doubt some of you reading owe these heroes your lives. I know I do. So does most everyone at the Bugle_ _– even if some of them refuse to admit it.  
_

 _A hero is a counter-agent. Not the cause._

– _Betty Brant_

* * *

He kept skimming through the online database of publications – ones open to the public, and ones less open to wayward academics – while decoding a portion of the S.H.I.E.L.D database he had managed to locate a backdoor into. But working past the encryptions of newspapers, online journals, blogs, and social media was sparkling's play compared to the encryptions on the database – so simple, in fact, he was managing it in the background through his subroutine cognitive functions. Heroes, it seemed, had been around for quite some time on the planet, the oldest of their kind dating back to World War II at the earliest. A majority of them made the east coast their home, particularly New York and its boroughs, but the data indicated they could make any large city their home, and they were not confined to the Americas by any means. They were reports of them in Britain, Egypt, China, and Japan. Certain individuals, indeed, were not even of this world. One hero, if the information was credible, was one of the Aesir. Powers, too, were as variable as their heritage. Bio-energy. Magnetism. Adhesion. Enhanced senses. Flight. Powers that, even for his species' advancements, could only be described as magic.

And their liaison with the nation's government had a single rule concerning them: no interaction.

* * *

" _They're good people, Prime. I'm not denying that. Heck, we owe our lives to some of 'em ten times over. But these people have had...problems with machines and aliens_ _before. And alien machines._ "

 _He offered the man a peculiar look. News of that nature he had suspected would be global, but a quick jaunt onto the internet had revealed such instances were reported on a more local scale. Unless it was a massive invasion from a time-traveling conqueror, news of hero and villain activity remained localized._

" _Look up the Kree, A.I.M, and Hydra._ _Trust me, that won't be very hard if you start digging on the web. You've gotta understand they_ _'re not gonna run up and starting hugging you if they see you. They see you, there's a chance they'll start shootin'. That goes double if they spot the kids with you. If any of you are ever in New York again, don't give 'em the wrong idea. Stay in cover. Don't step in if things go haywire on their end._ "

 _He nodded agreement. But within, the man's words bothered him. Were heroes really so quick to judge?_

* * *

There was a problem he was noticing with Agent Fowler's testimony. The further he researched, the more glaring the problem became. Heroes were well respected for their natural protective urges – only a handful were viewed by the populace in a less positive light – but as a whole they were not renowned for judging in an instant. Experience had taught them many times that judging without enough data could have disastrous consequences. Misunderstandings gone horribly wrong was reason enough to not be hasty in judgement. Yet Fowler was insistent that they would do precisely the opposite of what the data suggested. While it was true New York heroes had dealt with their fair share of aliens, machines, and alien machines, those had been cases of hostility directed at the planet's inhabitants. There was no recorded example of a benign member of any of the three categories being randomly attacked.

Did he trust their liaison? Or did he trust his research?

First-hand confirmation was the only way to determine for certain.

So now he, after slipping a harmless falsehood to their liaison, drove through the busy streets of Midtown Manhattan. Arcee and Bumblebee wandered the city's other major boroughs and neighborhoods, spread out to keep suspicion down. Taking Wheeljack would have presented too many risks, and Bulkhead was still recovering. The children knew not of this escapade – each was safely in their academic institutions until later that afternoon. Arcee and Bumblebee, thankfully, had had no interaction with the superhuman population in the city during their visit, nor had Miko and Jackson – being underground for their battle for the Phase Shifter had no doubt kept them from being discovered, and Vogel was under a strict gag rule.

But they were all above ground now. Exposed to eight million eyes.

And to the warship.

" _Nothing over in Harlem,_ _Optimus_ ," Arcee reported over the dashboard speakers. " _Couple of jaywalkers. Other than that,_ _place is peaceful._ "

" _Brooklyn, too. Isn't this where Captain America is supposed to be from? I wonder if he's here?_ '

"We are here to observe," he reminded the over-eager scout, "not interact. Should a threat manifest I will not –"

He cut off. Something shot overhead in a roaring sound more suiting of a jet aircraft – but the source was nowhere near the expected size. Something glaring red and gold the size of an adult male that rapidly faded into the distance. At ground level, an old model motorcycle, kept in pristine condition, grumbled past at a decent pace of forty miles per hour, weaving like a vine strand between traffic and thoughtfully using his direction indicators with each lane jump. The rider, a powerfully built but lean man, wore a brown leather jacket, beneath which was visible bright white and standard blue that stood out against a steady red, his head topped by old leather pilot's helmet. Strapped across his back was a large buckler shield colored the same as the clothing beneath the jacket, a bright white star perfectly centered. The rider escaped from scanning range within only a moment – too fast for a cursory scan. But both were emitting a signal. Radio frequency, not one he had seen used before. He tried to connect to the signal, but a wall of foreign encryption too advanced to readily break forced him to withdraw.

"Two targets spotted on at 7th and West 23rd. Avengers. Iron Man and Captain Rogers."

The two heroes continued down 7th for a time, then veered onto West 28th.

" _On our way!_ "

"No," he rumbled. "Nothing appears to be warranting their attention. Patrolling, it seems, is their aim."

" _Patrolling?_ " Arcee repeated. " _They aren't exactly at war. Or cops._ "

"The surest way of saving lives is preventing danger from emerging."

Arcee, ever cautious, could find no fault with his statement. But two patrollers seemed too inefficient to handle the entire city, she argued. There might be more – there _should_ be more. Stark and Rogers alone just wasn't enough to patrol a city of eight million.

"It could be," he retorted calmly. "The Iron Man armor is an advanced piece of technology, able to perform feats its pilot cannot. I could find no schematics, naturally, but it would not be far-fetched to believe it is outfitted with powerful scanning equipment, or has the capacity to wirelessly connect to police frequencies, perhaps individual mobile devices. In that case, two patrollers is more than enough. Fewer patrollers additionally means less attention drawn – and less reason for civilians to feel uneasy of their presence. But you know as well as I that patrolling an expansive area is more efficient when units are divided. There could be other heroes spread throughout the city."

She conceded to the postulate.

"Rendezvous. We will see if they locate trouble."

" _All due respect, but y_ _ou're really pressing your luck here, Optimus_. _On both sides._ "

"Agent Fowler believes they are dangerous to us. I merely wish to see if that belief is grounded in fact. Should this go awry, I alone will take the blame."

" _But I went along willingly!_ " protested the scout. " _You don't have to lie for me!_ "

"You agreed to join me in this investigation – only once I suggested it to you. Therefore, you are considered an accessory after the fact."

The scout gave a low droning groan of realization. Both pinged their positions to him every few minutes as they drew nearer. The last ping indicated they were together roughly five blocks from his current position. From the safety of the silo, Ratchet contacted him with the one phrase he had hoped he would not hear.

[Optimus, you have company.]

' _So soon?_ '

[Ground troops. Four of them, coming in from 6th Avenue. Presence unclear for now.]

The Prime debated telling him the reason, but he suspected his old friend already knew. Megatron would wonder what would prompt a return to the city. Avoiding the troops would be impossible – they would only follow until a confrontation inevitably occurred. He brought up a map of the city. Finding a less populated area in a city this densely populated was a fool's errand. He had to lead them underground. There had been a station on 7th and West 23rd, three blocks behind...

[They've altered course.]

" _What? Why?_ " Arcee demanded.

[I'm not sure. They've left 6th onto West 30th.]

His spark jumped. West 30th was a mere few blocks from the street the two heroes had ventured down in their patrol route. It was too soon to say the enemy was shadowing the heroes, but the proximity alone was dangerous. The Prime reached out to nearby transmission frequencies until he detected what he desired: a squad car's radio. Bless humanity's childish encryptions. Law officers had far more mobility in these congested streets – their eyes, numerous. But the police would be no match for four troops, nor would Stark or Rogers. These enemies were foreign to them. Though it went against common sense, he turned from 7th onto West 20th before emerging onto sixth, closing in on the ground troops. The four signals on his scanners, now in proximity for regional detection, had split into pairs of two, taking separate, branching streets. The roar of the Iron Man armor was near.

Law enforcement remained silent about the matter as the minutes ticked by. No violence, no chaos. The suspicious peace only fed his vigilance.

* * *

They were subtle about it, subtler than she was willing to give three Vehicons and their narcissistic commanding officer credit for, but they were definitely shadowing the two Avengers. And they were only getting bolder in how obvious the shadowing was. Closer. And closer. And closer. She wove past a few vehicles and took up a position just behind him, flaring her field in warning. Captain Rogers took notice of his shadows. His driving style was less assured, his grip tightening over the handlebars. No stress chemicals though. Not yet. The man looked back once, quick and efficient, and began to merge into the adjacent lane. When he attempted to lane jump into the far right lane, Knockout pulled up to block him. He veered back into his lane, startled but not yet suspicious.

She began to pull up to shield him. But not fast enough. Knockout veered sharply towards the man, striking him hard and sending both motorcycle and rider careening off the road where the vehicle flipped on the curb and sent the rider flying onto the sidewalk.

Iron Man reacted at the same instant a police vehicle's sirens went off, the officer within sending out a coded distress. He rounded on the disguised troops. Missile launchers emerged from his pauldrons, and both palms shone bright blue like beacons.

"Hey!" he barked. "You got a problem, take it up with me!"

All four Decepticons pulled sideways to block incoming traffic, resulting in a pile up of angry drivers furiously honking at them. On the sidewalk, one kind passerby helped the downed soldier back to his feet before backing off. The shield went up, the white star aimed right at the blockade.

"I'd hate to ding such a nice ride," the soldier warned, "but try that again and that thing'll be in the shop for good while."

Knockout's fragile ego snapped. He dropped his disguise to tower over the startled soldier, buzz saw whirring into high gear. His subordinates followed his lead and drew their own weapons.

"Okay. Didn't see that coming." Stark commented nonchalantly through his armor's speakers.

And then he – of course – opened fire. Three missiles rammed into a Vehicon's backstrut. The trooper teetered forward, but recovered enough to wheel on Stark and return fire.

Scrap.

* _Optimus!_ *

* _Keep them contained. I will be with you shortly._ *

* _Arcee!_ *

Bumblebee's vibrant form could be seen rounding a corner on the other end of the blockade. The scout managed to scoot past a few vehicles but soon hit a deadlock. The cops busied themselves with trying to clear the pile up (and any civilians), and they made surprisingly good progress for only a few minutes time. Knockout, thankfully uninterested in the civilians and officers, pulled out his prod and lunged at the soldier on the ground. Halfway, a form black as the void streaked through the air to slice the weapon in two, the cuts clean and precise like a surgical knife. The form dropped to the ground in a feline manner that matched his inky full-body armor, two pairs of dastardly three inch claws extending from his gloved fingers.

"Hey, Devil Wears Prada! Why don't you pick on someone at your eye level?!"

Knockout looked up in time for three small "sticks" to fly at him – and impale themselves in the chassis. The shooter: a lean man in an unusual violet suit armed with a bow and riding some sort of flying motorcycle. An "H" symbol sat on his eye-horned cowl. The smirk on his face reminded her a little too much of Cliff's own. Trouble-maker, this one, and proud of it.

Rather than whine about the arrows, the Decepticon medic smirked and laughed.

"Arrows? Really? You think acupuncture is going to hurt me?"

"Nope," replied the archer with a broader smirk. "But those aren't regular arrows."

When he tried to remove them, Knockout recoiled and howled as electricity surged through him. He brushed the arrows off viciously, only managing to remove the shafts.

"Robots. You guys never like being zapped, do ya?"

"You miserable little –!"

A fourth arrow struck him between the optics.

"Hey, Cap! Check it out! Unicorns _are_ real!" he joked.

The stunned look on the man's face seemed torn between remaining that way and grinning at the bad joke. The ensuing murder-snarl that came from Knockout's vocalizer would have made any self-preserving individual run. But not the archer. He grinned back, completely relaxed – and safely out of reach. The files the Prime had provided to her identified them: the Black Panther, ruler of a small, isolated nation in Africa, and Hawkeye, an expert marksman known for his disrespect for authority. Avengers, like Rogers and Stark. Reinforcements.

A final missile barrage from Stark downed the Vehicon at last. Panther leapt up the side of the building, vaulting off onto a third Vehicon's arm as it aimed to shoot and darting up the limb as it tried to swat him off. Reaching the trooper's head, claws swiped at its visor, rupturing it. He drew something from a pocket, extending it into a spear of violet energy – which was then impaled it into the visor with savage force. The trooper howled as the Panther yanked the spear out and jumped, narrowly avoiding a swiped hand.

The look in Rogers' sharp blue eyes at that howl – it was like someone had just slapped him.

* * *

He suspected. The soldier suspected their true nature. He did not know whether to be sorry or glad.

Hawkeye scolded the man for not helping before firing another volley of arrows at the Panther's selected Vehicon victim. The heads exploded in spectacular fashion for such small weapons, downing the trooper. The signal from its spark remained active. Accident or intended mattered little. The final trooper finally managed to hit his mark, the charged plasma shot striking his vehicle, forcing him to abandon it and leap onto the nearest rooftop, rolling to soften the impact. The vehicle hit ground, a smoldering and now dented wreck.

The archer's response was "colorful" language and a single arrow. The Vehicon attempted to swat it away only for the head to burst, splashing liquid onto its frame that devoured the metal in a tank-curdling, hissing display.

Acid.

Stark's attention thus transferred to Knockout. Blast after blast from his palms were fired, but they did nothing. He drew nearer, no doubt thinking proximity might increase damage. Knockout swiped with the saw, dodging, but the trooper intervened, swatting the armored man out of the sky to hit the ground like a meteor. Knockout stomped on the man. Once. Twice, grinding him into the ground.

His sparked stopped. His engine roared into overdrive as he floored the accelerator.

He gave Knockout fair warning.

 _HONK! HOOONK!_

He rammed himself into the medic's legs, toppling him, skidding to a halt.

"Are you crazy?!" the archer shouted at him. "Get outta here, bozo!"

He deigned to disobey.

An insect buzzed by his passenger side door as Knockout rose. Then another. Yellow and black streaked by.

" _Come on, Hank!_ " a female voice urged. " _Giant robots! How are you not geeking out?!_ "

No. Not an insect. A minuscule human female, more sprite than adult. Another target joined her. An ant, a large drone, with something red on its back. Both forms shone and enlarged to a normal height. Bumblebee trilled his delight at the sight of the two Avengers over short-band, complimenting the woman's choice of colorful fashion that mimicked his own. The building anxiety prevented him from smiling within at the scout's obvious admiration.

Wasp shrunk down again to fly up –

 _Primus, no._

The young woman buzzed up to Knockout's face, greeted him " _Hiya!_ " and smiled. Was she mad?

Knockout's hand slammed around her before she could react, each hand cupped in the same manner of a child capturing an insect. His spark flipped.

"JAN!" cried the red-suited man.

When Knockout peered in to investigate his catch, he was met with a bright light from within that made him reel back in pain. One hand went to shield his optic as he swung his saw at her blindly. The woman was too nimble for him. Rogers finally joined the fray, flinging his shielded to strike the medic's helm. The shield bounced off a building, in the end returning to its owner's hand. Whatever the shield was made of was strong enough to leave a dent just above Knockout's right optic while leaving the shield unaffected. A scan of it was of no use – the metal comprising it had no match in his databanks.

" _Hank! The other one! Get the other one!_ " shouted the woman.

Her male companion activated a dial device on his waist. In moments he towered at Knockout's height. Both Decepticons were taken aback, more so when the man swung a sharp punch at the last remaining Vehicon. An ensuing kick sent the acid-corroded trooper stumbling back. Stark's chest ignited like a flare. Rogers noticed. Ant-Man heard it, but only he reacted – and not in the way he expected.

"TONY, NO!" the male size-changer hollered. "You might hit the –!"

Too late. The beam burst forth and struck the trooper in the chassis, ripping a burning hole through its spark chamber. It collapsed over the barricade, metal crashing against concrete, dead, but it crushed no civilian or officer. They were long gone.

Wasp's male companion stepped back, his face stunned.

 _Does he know?_

 _Is he aware of our nature?_

The red medic took advantage, striking him in the chest. The man stumbled; the saw swung. The limb was caught before it could sink its rotating teeth into flesh. Knocked proved strong enough to tip the scale, forcing his saw nearer and nearer to his head. Thunder rumbled in a threatening drum roll across the clear skies. Wasp fired at the medic again, her strange blast striking his radial plating. Knockout did not respond. Panther flung three violet darts that embedded themselves into the crooks of his armor, earning a snarl and thus permitting Ant-Man to press his advantage. Desperate now, Knockout feigned weakness – when Ant-Man fell into it, the medic's helm rammed forward, impacting the man's skull, forcing the man back again.

The thunder grew louder still.

Out of the clear skies a bolt crashed down, missing the red medic by a narrow margin.

"Foul machine!" bellowed the Aesir. "Strike again and you will know Mjolnir's full fury!"

* _Nuh-uh!_ * Bumblebee trilled. * _He's real?!_ *

Knockout's sudden backing out of his spar with Ant-Man did little to appease the Aesir prince.

"Thor! Electricity hurts it! Give it everything you've got!" Stark hollered over his armor's speakers. "And you! In the semi! Move it!"

His words made the red medic tense. Then, he made to flee. A second bolt crashed, this one hitting its mark, scorching the medic's radial plating black and earning a cry of acute pain. He charged over and dropped disguise, shoving the red medic out of the way before another bolt struck him, the bolt instead striking his radial plating instead, its agonizing sting racing up his tactile net.

* _Are you crazy?!_ * Arcee demanded. * _Move, Optimus! That slagger's not worth protecting! If Thor takes care of him for us, good riddance!_ *

Part of him agreed with her. A minuscule part. Knockout had proved himself a threat countless times, and yet again by running Rogers off the road and attacking him. But other than a few scrapes on his body and vehicle, the man was unharmed. As was Miss Van Dyne.

"Cease your attacks, Thunderer!" he protested. "To strike a fleeing target has no honor!"

The Aesir blinked. Confusion warped his infuriated expression into a meeker one.

He stepped away from the medic. Knockout appeared torn briefly on how to respond, but in the end folded down into vehicular form and speed off in a squealing of tires. His form quickly disappeared. Tiny wings buzzed in his right audial. He glanced sideways to find Wasp mere inches from his faceplates, balled fists up and glowing with a harshly yellow light. Her frown was suspicious, but her eyes did not bear the same attitude.

"If you're with that guy, I'll sick all the boys on you."

He shook his helm. "I am not."

Her energy shut down. Her fists lowered. She blinked. "Then why protect him?"

"If a life can be saved, it should be."

Her mouth opened to reply, but she missed her chance when he folded down and drove off, signaling Arcee and Bumblebee to follow. No hero followed.

A hand had been extended. Now all that was left was to see whether or not they responded with a hand of their own.

* * *

Miko accosted them the moment they emerged from the groundbridge. He quickly put a hand over the black scar left by the Aesir's weapon. She noticed regardless of the effort, the mark too extensive to be easily concealed. She leaned over the railing with wide eyes.

"Whoa! What happened?"

"What is she doing here?" deadpanned the femme at his side.

At the console, Ratchet grumbled that she'd been sent home early for engaging in a brawl with a classmate – which she had apparently won. Her target had been sent to the school nurse with a black eye.

"Miko..." he rumbled.

The girl retorted with her usual fire, "Hey, he was picking on Raf, okay? Vince got what he deserved. Now you're turn: where'd that mark come from?"

"PRIME!"

Fowler stormed through the lift, a tablet in hand. He held it up, pointing to the screen. On it was an article published barely fifteen minutes ago, headlined in bold red script by a title that read "Avengers vs. Giant Robots!" published by the Daily Bugle. The main photo was of him shoving Knockout aside just as Thor's attack impacted.

"Explain yourself!"


	2. Chapter 2: Fallout

**Autobots, Assemble! Series 1**

Chapter 2: Fallout

* _Note: As I told a viewer, this is mostly going to be from the 'Bots perspectives, but every so often I'll be pulling a "switcheroo" back to the humans/superheroes when it really matters. And it won't just be a little section before swapping back. I'm talking whole chapters. So here's the first important "switcheroo." Now, keep in mind, these chapters may be shorter than the main 'Bot-perspective ones.  
_

* * *

"Is anyone else confused here?" wondered Wasp. "Because I'm confused."

"You're not the only one," he assured her.

If anyone bothered to write a book about the universal rules of being a superhero, he mumbled, rule twelve would probably be "Robots will always try to kill you." Getting attacked by robots was nothing new. Getting attacked by robots that could disguise themselves as cars and trucks and who knew what else – that was new. But now that rule was under question. That freight truck robot had stepped in to help the red sports car one after attacking it, and yet it hadn't attacked _them_. It had told Thor to stand down, it had said a few words to Janet – and that was it. No drawn weapon, no shots fired, no attempt to grind anyone into the ground. No attempt at violence. After speaking to Janet, it had simply left the scene. Two other vehicles had followed it.

" _Allies, perhaps, sir?_ " Jarvis suggested.

"Maybe," he muttered. "But then why didn't they step in?"

" _Under orders would be the most feasible explanation. But, sir, more importantly, I detected unusual energy readings from_ –"

"Later, Jarvis. I saw them. We can run analysis later."

" _But, sir,_ " Jarvis protested, " _the signals have disappeared entirely._ "

He blinked. Gone?

"Tap into the network. See if you can find them again."

" _Already in progress, sir._ "

He set the armor down on the ground and drew up to the downed violet robot that he'd shot. Hank was already busy examining it while T'Challa busied himself examining another. He couldn't see his eyes through the silver helmet but he did see his frown. He ignored it and scanned the strangely humanoid machine from head to foot. He couldn't hold back a whistle as the scans came back sector by sector. The design on the outside was impressive enough, but the inside – it was a robotics engineer's wet dream. The way everything linked together was more like artwork than robotics. Whoever had built these things hadn't had just practicality in mind, and the sheer complexity – he would be surprised if these things were Earth-built.

But there was always a universal constant with machines: power sources.

He directed the scan higher up. The chest cavity, damaged as it was, held a few unusual mechanisms within that demanded further study. Where his uni-beam had drilled a hole there was a distinct chamber-like cavity containing the faintest of residual energy, energy he couldn't identify, and it was fading fast. He saved the readings just as the last of it dissipated, coupling it with the scans Jarvis had taken while the machine was active. Whatever had been in there had been powerful, remarkably stable, and could've been the power source, explaining why Hank had been so averse to him aiming there. There was something else, too. Another energy signal.

"What...?"

There was a strange fluid seeping from the chest region. Blue. Glowing. Strong energy readings emanated from it.

He had the armor zoom in on the substance as he knelt down to collect a small amount on the tips of his gauntleted fingers. The armor... _reacted._ Power readings fluxed for a second before stabilizing.

"Wasp!" he called. "You have any lip balm on you?"

She flew over and increased her size. "Yeah, why?"

"Can I have the lid?"

She fished into the small pocket in her skirt and tossed the item in question to him. Catching it, he scraped the dripping substance off.

" _Tony, we have company incoming ahead_ ," Clint reported. " _Black truck. Ford._ "

"S.H.I.E.L.D?"

" _No. No markings. Blank. But it looks official._ "

He turned away from the machine in time to see the vehicle in question pull up to the dismantling police barricade. Two Caucasian men in their late thirties and a Hispanic woman of similar age emerged wearing formal business attire. A chocolate-skinned female officer stepped up to advise them not to enter the same way she had with arriving onlookers, but a flash of a badge by the man in front made her stand down in shock. The trio approached him.

"Mr. Stark?" the woman asked.

He switched his thrusters back on and piloted the armor back down onto the cement. A simple command made the armor's faceplates retract. He flashed her a smile.

"Now your turn. Who're you people?"

The woman and the two men all displayed their badges. He put the badge into the database. Federal government, but beyond that he could find no match for the badges. And they hadn't given names.

"Is something the matter, ma'am?" Steve asked in return.

She snorted, "At least one of you has maturity."

"We're here to collect the machines and dispose of them before undesirables get a hold of them," one of the men explained.

Wasp jumped down from the machine's chest and onto its arm. Couldn't they just leave that to Damage Control? she wondered. That was kind of their job.

"Damage Control is under orders to not interfere with these machines should they ever come across them," the other woman clarified. "This is beyond them."

"We're confiscating any scans and readings the Iron Man armor obtained as well," her second male friend said.

He bristled, "Look, I get taking the machines away, but unless you have a warrant you're not getting those sca–"

The woman held up a slip of paper. A warrant. He bristled further. A simple shake of the head from Steve convinced him to stand down.

"...Can I at least keep the basic video feed?" he requested.

* * *

"Jarvis, go back to 0:46 and freeze frame."

" _Yes, sir._ "

The intelligence did as asked. The video the armor's sensors had recorded rewound and paused at that harrowing moment where the red robot had slammed one of its giant feet down onto Tony. Though only a recording, nonetheless he flinched. He didn't need the recording to hear the horrible metal-on-metal-on-concrete of the robot's foot grinding the armor into the pavement after pounding it into a crater. Tony was lucky the armor could take a thorough beating. If that had been anyone bar maybe the Hulk beneath that foot – he shuddered. Not a pleasant thing to try to imagine.

"There's no marks that I can see," Tony muttered. "I mean, besides the faint decals on the arms. Doesn't help us figure out who sent it."

His brows puckered. "It." He'd never been one to personify machines, not when Hydra and A.I.M were so intent on demonizing them, but something about the description of "it" didn't sit right with him. Maybe because the robot looked shockingly humanoid, and its voice, unlike a Hydra dreadnought's, had not sounded hollow and robotic – it had sounded like a human being. A male human being for that matter, somewhere in his mid to late thirties or early forties. Its voice had been full, suave, languid, and dangerous. Arrogant, too. And he hadn't imagined the pain in that voice either when Thor had lashed out. The other, the eighteen wheeler, had sounded much older, the male voice like thunder as it had cried for a halt to the Asgardian's attack. Like the smaller red one it, too, had let out a sound of pain at being struck.

T'Challa leaned forward onto his elbows, hands folded, "Jarvis, have you located the signals the armor detected from these machines?"

" _Presently, no, Your Highness._ "

The Wakandan nodded imperceptibly. Tony was lost in the analysis of the recording.

Clint interjected with his usual keenness of observation, "What I don't get is why Devil Wears Prada here ran the old man off the road, beat Stark into the pavement, and then didn't hurt Wasp. What the heck gives? Picky robot."

"...Maybe it was coded to respect the ladies?" Wasp offered humorously, smirking at him.

Clint snorted.

His hands, previously folded under his chin, fell, and one brow rose as a frown worked its way into existence. That was a contradiction. Another soon appeared on the screen as the intelligence hunted through the footage. A horn blared. The smaller red machine's foot was suddenly removed from the armor's view, sending the owner careening away to in a barely controlled stumble. The footage jumped to nearer the end. The eighteen wheeler shoved the smaller red machine out of the way in time for lightning to strike it, burning the red metal of its arm black. He winced in spite of himself on hearing it again. To attack someone and then shove them out of the way to protect them – he shook his head. When the eighteen wheeler stifled a cry of pain, he winced without hardly registering it. Why would a machine be made to feel pain? A Hydra dreadnought never reacted to pain this way – it just responded to attacks. To react to pain, you had to be able to feel it.

Dread constricted his gut just as it had on the streets.

"Wait, stop!" Clint barked. "Go back! Slow."

Slowly, the footage of the double whammy rewound.

"Stop it there!"

Jarvis complied, freezing the recording right before the impact of the bolt. He pointed at the taller machine's arm, "Jarvis, zoom in there."

The footage was enlarged. He squinted. There was something on the arm he hadn't caught during the fight. The metal, square in the middle of the shoulder, was relief carved, but he couldn't tell what was carved. The image quality wasn't the best. It wasn't Hydra though – the bottom of the carving didn't match their tentacled badge.

"Can you clean the frame up?"

" _Owing to the damage the armor's sensors sustained before this particular moment, such a request may be impossible, Master Barton._ "

Clint swore, flung his hands up, and demanded why the intelligence was kept around. He was supposed to be able to do stuff like that!

"Mortal technology has its limits," Thor reminded him.

Clint was quick to glare at him.

Tony jolted, "If the machine and the truck are the same thing," he realized, hand pressing into a temple, "then we should find the carved symbol on the truck itself somewhere. We find that symbol at any point before my visual sensors got hit, Jarvis can get a better visual and run a search for it."

It didn't take more than thirty seconds for Jarvis to deliver. The footage paused less than a second before the truck had rammed into the smaller robot. On its grill was the symbol from the shoulder carving. He didn't know what he'd been expecting to see, but he certainly hadn't been expecting a face of all things to stare back, unblinking. A strange face, too – boxy, with clearly carved eyes that were too square to be human, unadorned by a definite expression, yet somehow it frowned. But coupled with the eyes that slanted neither up nor down, the frown was not, he felt, a malicious one. It was a stern face, he decided.

Wasp flew up to the display, "What is that?"

"Jarvis, run a search. See if you can find anything."

" _Search already in progress, sir. I will alert you the moment I find something on either active inquiry._ "

"Can you get me a line to Ant-Man?"

" _Dr. Pym requested no interruptions, sir. Radio or physical. He promised to alert you of any discoveries gleaned from the sample._ "

The right edge of Tony's lips dipped into a low declining ramp, and he went so far as to remove his hands from the table. Janet was quick to zap one of the offending limbs. Wincing, his hands returned to the table's edge, one massaging the other. Impatient, just like his father, and impulsive. But those weren't the traits needed to solve a mystery.

"What about the government workers?" he asked. "Do we have anything on them?"

"I snagged images of their badges. Jarvis, can you bring 'em up?"

The display replaced the image of the machines with images of the three government employees each displaying their identification cards and credentials. The woman: Daniela Belmonte, age 37. The two men were Cameron Caldwell, age 35, and Isaac Olhouser, age 40. The ID's didn't look like anything special to him – just plain old ID badges detailing them as government workers. It was the clearance level on their cards that caught his attention. S.H.I.E.L.D Deputy Director tier. He frowned. Damage Control didn't need that level of clearance to do away with Hydra and A.I.M. machines. So why did these folks?

"Can you bring up any files on them, Jarvis?" demanded Wasp.

" _Nothing substantial, unfortunately, Miss Van Dyne, other than their names appearing in records of West Point Academy._ "

His brows rose, "Military?"

" _Indeed, sir._ "

"Maybe Rhodey could tell us!" exclaimed Wasp. "He's military. Right, Tony?"

"Even if he's in the loop about this," Tony scowled, "if someone higher up the food chain tells him to zip him, he'll zip it."

"I still have ties with the military," he reminded him. "They might be willing to spill information if I ask the right people the right way."

T'Challa eyed him and nodded once. Nodding back, he rose from the table and headed for the doors.

"Try not to get run off the road again, old man."

He tossed a glare back at the archer just before the doors to the Hall hissed shut.

* * *

The human body was complex. Almost a dozen systems worked together to create a functioning person. Each was vital and served a purpose. Robotics experts were most interested in the brain. It was responsible for sentience and, as Tony would say, was the CPU of the human body. Without it, there was no function, and in the case of humans, no sentience. The closer they got to mimicking the human brain, the closer they got to true artificial intelligence. Jarvis was incredibly close, but he was nowhere near the complexity he had seen in the machines. Their voices were beautifully emulated. Their movements, while stiff (they couldn't help that) were fluid. And they had clearly displayed sentience.

His gut clenched.

' _Did we break our code and kill a living being?_ '

But he had to work with what he had, and what he had was fascinating on its own.

Taking a pair of tweezers, he plucked the black thing the size of a strawberry seed out of the glowing liquid and under the microscope. Technology had protection software – firewalls – to prevent viruses from damaging the system. On Earth, at least, that protection software was entirely digital. The human body had its own system of entirely physical firewalls. He shrank down and clambered onto the slide. Mechanical, just like the liquid's owner, spherical in shape with a few spines protruding from it, and possessing a pair of thin, segmented "tails" – probably to help in movement through the mechanical version of a circulatory system.

The shout of delight that escaped would've resulted in Jan teasing him for life – if she'd been there to hear it.

It was a nanomachine. A nanite, designed to look like the amalgam of a bacterium and a thorny seed pod.

Efforts to create a mechanical immune system so far were merely theory among doctors and technology experts. To see an example of it done so elegantly – granted at a larger scale than could be used on humans – it was almost enough to drown out the horror. Almost. His heart dropped. He brought up the scans the helmet had taken. Fortunate that those government workers hadn't thought to confiscate all tech scans. His heart dropped lower still. That only made sense – machines, no matter the size, needed commands to function, and those commands had to come from somewhere. In humans, they came from the brain. In computers, they came from a Central Processing Unit. But it was no ordinary CPU he was looking at.

"Tony?"

" _What is it, Hank?_ "

"Those weren't just machines," he breathed. "They-they reacted to pain, they have what I believe is an immune system consisting of nanomachines, and to top it off they have what looks like a fully operational and incredibly advanced neural net."

"... _What?_ "

"I'm sending you the scans from the cranial cavity of the red machine. You tell me. Is that a neural net or not?"

Silence on the other end. Knowing Tony, he was probably geeking out over the scans he'd hidden from the authorities, completely oblivious to the ethics of it all.

" _It is. It's a neural net..._ "

It wasn't often he heard horror and regret in Stark's voice. Some spiteful part of him was glad to hear it.

"Tony, we broke out code today. We didn't just damage a machine into shutting down. We killed. We killed living beings today. Living, sentient machines."

* * *

West Point sat roughly fifty miles from Manhattan give or take, depending on the route taken. The old stone buildings stood in sharp contrast to the glass and steel of the city, and though the architects certainly hadn't had it in mind, they reminded him a little too much of the old Norwegian castle. Three students doing a "punishment tour" were kind to enough to offer directions to the Dean's Quarters, another old-style stone building. A few more directions from students in the hall eventually led him to the Dean's office. He knocked.

" _Come in._ "

He opened the door. Sitting at a sturdy, paper-laden desk was a woman with short dark hair, well-tanned skin, and dressed impeccably in uniform busy writing on a form. Her short hook of a nose reminded him of a bird. Her badges and stitched markings displayed her rank of Brigadier General. Instinctively he stood at attention. The name plate on the desk read:

 _Horne, Meghan_  
 _Dean_

She finished her writing, stuck her pen back in its holder, and looked up. Calm as her body language and expression was, he spotted an imperceptible jolt when she laid on eyes on him.

"Ma'am," he greeted.

"At ease, Captain. What brings you to West Point?"

He explained.

One thin eyebrow rose, "Machines attacked you in the city, and three former students showed up to cart what was left of some of them away?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Her elbows came to rest on the desk as her fingers folded, "You realize you're delving into classified information, I hope," she answered.

"Classified or not, ma'am, I think I'm owed some answers. I was run off the road by one of those machines without provocation, and the rest attacked my team. If that truck hadn't intervened –"

"Truck?" she repeated quickly. "What truck?"

"Peterbilt, I think. Red and blue. Had a strange face symbol on its grill, and on its shoulder when it changed forms. It – he – kept Tony from being mashed into the concrete, and kept Thor from going full out on the smaller red machine. He shoved the other one out of the way before another bolt could hit him, wound up taking the hit himself."

Horne stared at him for almost a minute. Then a hoarse, weary sigh and a swear escaped. Her hand went to massage the bridge of her nose.

"Guess you do deserve some answers," she sighed. "Just keep in mind I could lose my job for telling you this. Not to mention Bryce and Fury will be at my neck before you can say ' _Semper Fi_.'"

* * *

 **Author's Note: Depending on what's going on, these human P.O.V chapters could be longer. But this one is shorter. Also, this corrects a problem I didn't address very well in the original - heroes have "no-kill codes" and a couple of Vehicons/Eradicons were killed in the original, not to mention Megatron in Deadlock. I want to more properly show the fallout of such a situation. Yes, I know, it's serious - but EMH could be very serious when it wanted to be.**

 ***NOTE TO "GUEST": Bay-verse is staying out of this fic. It is trash. End of story. **


	3. Chapter 3: Knock, Knock

**Autobots, Assemble! Series 1**

Chapter 3: Knock Knock, Anyone Home?

* _I like to think every Prime has a different experience with the Matrix. For some it's a quiet transfer of data, for others it can be actual voices informing them. Optimus, in my opinion, has a kind of hybrid of speech and raw transfer in the form of "whispers." They'll appear in spurts in this rework of book one, as they are not constant.  
_

* * *

Fowler was a storm. He was harmless enough without fuel to feed his strength, but once given fuel in the form of incidents and events he disliked he began to add to his mass. The bigger the incident that occurred, the more fuel he was provided, until the rumbling thunderstorm became a tropical storm. He was easy to manage at that stage of development. At times, though, he would go beyond a tropical storm and evolve rapidly into a roaring hurricane. Like any hurricane he screamed towards his target sporting noise and rain and cared little for the personal feelings of those in his way, and like any hurricane he could leave damage in his wake if precautions were not taken. Keeping Bulkhead out of he way during times such as that was typically the wise move – the former Wrecker loved to snap back at the storm, heedless that the storm would snap back even harsher. But in the end, thankfully, he always weakened once he hit land and began to pour out his emotional cargo, draining his reserves until he, having vented his spleen to the full, left them as a tropical storm to deal with the sense of heckling and agitation he always left in his wake.

He was not an easy man to work with.

Scowling, he continued to polish clean the electric burn on his friend's radial plating, "You could teach him something about basic courtesy, you know," he grumbled.

"He has every right to be disquieted over what happened, old friend."

"Does that mean he has a right to yell at you over it?"

Optimus did not answer. He was not agitated in the same way he was – his field was mostly calm and his plating bore only the tiniest trace of tightness. Troubled, he thought, would be nearer the mark. Fowler had made salient points about his actions in New York, and if he knew his friend, his vast cognitive functions were going over the ramifications of his actions, the Avengers', and those of the Decepticons. It was a complicated, confusing situation – he would not deny it. Their civil war with Megatron's zealots was simple compared to the dizzying intricacies of the superhuman community and terrestrial law.

The Prime flinched as the cloth passed over the middle of the burn at slightly more pressure. His scans had revealed no lasting damage; the neurodes in the limb were nothing more than hyperactive. ~ _apology_ ~ he signaled as he deactivated the neurodes in the region. The Prime flashed back his acceptance and gave a brief nod.

"You realize it was probably for the best that this occurred in New York," he reminded him in dry humor. "Anywhere else and our presence would be considered out-of-the-ordinary."

The Prime cocked a brow ridge at him, " _Our_ presence?"

He snorted, "You have bigger priorities than correcting what you see as a grammatical slight."

The wisp of a smile, so rare to see, appeared and disappeared in an instant.

* _What are we gonna do about it?_ * the scout trilled. * _We can't just sit back. Knockout targeted them. He wanted a fight._ *

"For now," the Prime rumbled, "we wait."

The scout's un-blinking optics whirred wider, * _But what if he tries again?_ *

"He will not."

The certainty in his voice forced him to scrutinize the Prime. So that was where his train of thought was heading, was it – that this had been a "one-off" as Jackson would say?

Arcee frowned, "I don't understand the _point_ of the attack, though," she said. "They didn't provoke him in any I way I could see. Like 'Bee says, Knockout clearly _wanted_ a fight, him going after them without an obvious reason spells that out, but he didn't want it enough to inflict major damages. All he did was leave them with minor injuries and a busted up exo-suit before Thor scared him off. But why? What was reason behind it? You don't just attack the Avengers because you're _bored._ That's like Raf taking a swing at a professional boxer. What did he think was going to happen?"

* _Maybe a threat? A warning or something?_ *

The femme shook her helm, still frowning, "If he was aiming to threaten them he could've done it better. He didn't threaten them so much as he surprised them."

"Knockout's not as mad as he behaves," he agreed, "no matter how hard attempts to assure us that he is. There is always a design behind his acts – not always intelligent design, but design nonetheless."

"Not to mention he risked his precious finish by goading them into an open brawl," Arcee scoffed.

Bumblebee whistled his agreement.

Optimus offered no words to the conundrum, electing to remain silent and reflect of the information he had. He assisted him back to his trods. The Prime's optics quickly darted to one side, and his helm soon followed on picking up the low, heavy groan of the entry tunnel's blast door. Bulkhead drove in. A second later and his front door was kicked open, disgorging his hyperactive, adrenaline-addicted female charge, asking – no, demanding – answers. He stifled a groan. Her incessant questioning was normally agitating in its own right but she was a welcome change from Agent Fowler. She was infinitely curious where Fowler had been angry and stressed. He would have preferred Jackson's or Rafael's presence, but Arcee and Bumblebee would soon need to leave to collect them. Bulkhead would manage her in the interim while Optimus recovered and analyzed – though he had a feeling the Prime already knew the answer, and that answer was the cause of his troubled gaze.

"I still think it wasn't your place to step in, Optimus," Arcee said. "They're able to handle themselves just fine."

More tension quickly made itself known in his friend's plating. Arcee was treading dangerous water.

The Prime cast her a sideways glance. Sorrow gleaming in his optics. "You would have preferred that I let them terminate Knockout."

Arcee winced, "Look, I know it's not the way you would do it, but think about it – without a medic the 'Cons are that much more vulnerable. We're outnumbered and outgunned. We need every advantage."

"I understand warfare hardens those involved in it, Arcee, but that was not the sole reason I intervened."

The femme shuttered her optics rapidly.

"A vast majority of the superhuman community have a code, a moral code," the Prime explained, "to never take a life, no matter if it is from their world or not, and no matter if that life has tried to take theirs a hundred times over. To kill would make them no better than those they fight."

"Yeah! The no-kill code!" Miko confirmed from her perch on Bulkhead's pauldron. "It's a _huge_ deal with them!"

Dorsal fins lowering, the femme apologized as guilt began to appear in her expression and her field. Optimus turned and offered her a sympathetic nod and a few glyphs through his field. The idealist in him would never agree with such a cold outlook, he knew, nor would it ever fully form in his mind, but the strategist in him understood well enough how and why it had formed. That the idealist in him had survived this far was nothing short of miraculous. Perhaps that was the reason he had tried to reach out to them, he mused. He was not interested in involving them in their war – they shared his idealistic outlook on conflict. There was a chance he saw in them a reminder of their own goal, untainted by the base need for survival.

Without much more than a mumbled excuse, she transformed and left the silo. Trilling an excuse of his own, the scout joined her.

* * *

Bumblebee was the first to return, Rafael in the passenger seat. Arcee followed a few minutes behind him. The femme's return to the fold at least told him that time away, time around Jackson on the return trip, had helped ease the awkwardness of her earlier comment. He felt no malice towards that comment of hers. Turning, he offered a polite nod at her presence, earning a quick but still apologetic flick of her dorsal fins.

A murmur soon arose as the children, instantly heading for the catwalk lounge, and their companions discussed the happenings in New York. The quiet ticking of keys alerted him of Rafael's exploration of the internet. Connecting to his machine revealed an open tab to the Daily Bugle website, his focus on the comments rather than the story itself. Deleting the images on the story, the boy knew, would cause problems, thus the mouse pointer never targeted it.

 _Why had they been targeted?_

 _What did the Decepticons hope to gain from it?_

 _Who had given the order?_

 _Were other teams going to be attacked?_

 _Would the same attack commence on the heroes' enemies?_

He frowned. His vast cognitives preferred to keep his thoughts orderly and straightforward. Too many active lines of thought led to an unwelcome tangle of data. The faint whispers in his mind did their best to accommodate, but the more talkative whispers were overeager in their queries, opening more than the necessary amount of data-chains. He politely silenced those whispers. It was always best to answer one question at a time.

The events played back once more in his mind in vivid, full-color flashes. His lip-plates curved down. War was never won on an impulse. While Knockout had acted impulsively on the surface, goading the Avengers into conflict, the act itself had been far more calculated than it appeared at first. He had been careful not to damage Captain Rogers and Miss Van Dyne beyond basic medical treatment; Stark had been attacked more thoroughly owing to the increased protection his armor granted, but had not been killed; and while Ant-Man had struck at him last, on more even footing, Knockout's retaliation had, too, been calculated and atypically restrained – the damage sustained to his head had been no more severe than that sustained by Rogers. He could have cracked his skull open, but he had not.

Restraint was not a trait Knockout was known for exhibiting.

 _He was forced to.._.

 _What choice did he have?_

 _Does anyone under Megatron's power have a choice?_

The encounter flashed through his mind again. That was the same conclusion he was leaning towards. Decepticons obeyed a rigid power hierarchy when leadership was not in flux. Someone above Knockout had ordered this attack. The sudden nature of the attack spoke of Starscream's mind but as Starscream was no longer affiliated with the Decepticon cause, he could not have given the order to Knockout. Furthermore, the uniquely tailored nature of Knockout's attacks on each of the Avengers he had targeted spoke of a less impulsive mind. Megatron, perhaps Dreadwing; Soundwave, too, was a possibility. Any one of them could have ordered this attack, but the unusual restraint involved was more telling of Dreadwing's or Soundwave's mind. This was not an attack in the sense they had grown accustomed to, and to make matters more complicated still it seemed to have occurred with little in the way of precedence. There had been no forewarning for either his troops to act upon or the Avengers to have acted upon. Megatron's arrogance usually prevented him from acting with subtlety, and Knockout suffered from the same affliction. The irony was not lost on him – while Knockout was far from subtle, his vehicle mode was the only one that could conform to the city's vehicle population. He could pass unnoticed for far longer than any other Decepticon.

The mark and mind of a tactician in the encounter was too be plain to be missed.

 _Not wise, challenging them..._

 _Was it?_

 _They should have taken precautions..._

 _But precautions would remove the blind essence of an experiment..._

He hushed the whispers again. He was fairly certain now what this attack's goal had been _._ Turning, he signaled through his field for Ratchet to follow. Rafael noted his sudden movement and watched closely. He felt the boy's eyes track him until he had rounded a corner deeper into the silo.

"I have reviewed the evidence from the attack," he said.

"And?" Ratchet prompted him.

"The only logical conclusion to be reached," he said, "is that it was an analysis of their ranks. Whether it was out of preemptive caution or Megatron suddenly feeling threatened by them I cannot say for certain. Both hold validity."

The old medic's field flickered as his expression darkened, "Are other groups in danger, then?"

He was silent for a moment. The evidence pointed that way, certainly, he admitted, but his research into the Avengers painted them as potentially the most dangerous squadron to combat. They were efficient, well coordinated, and well trained. Two of their number were labeled by S.H.I.E.L.D as Omega level threats should they ever go rogue. The Avengers were not a group any individual, sane or not, challenged or threatened on a whim. To attack them unprepared for any number of eventualities had led to the defeat of their enemies countless times. Humans were adaptable beings as a whole – grant them abilities, or talents honed to perfection, and their options for adaptability in any given situation skyrocketed.

Ratchet tossed a concerned glance back in the direction of the command center, "What I don't understand is the _timing._ The Decepticons have had ample time to observe them from a safe distance. Why only now engage them? Why engage them at all for that matter? If they can observe without riling these people into striking back, people with powers enough to decimate his forces I might add, all the better for them. When was kicking a scraplet nest ever a sound notion?"

"I have an idea," a young voice squeaked.

Surprised, he turned on his heel struts to find Rafael, laptop tucked under his arm. He had not heard him approach.

"And what would that be, Rafael?" he asked.

"Their recent trip to New York for the Phase Shifter," Rafael elaborated, "I think that gave them reason to start being concerned about the teams and solos. New York has the highest concentration of heroes compared to any other city. Just _being_ there they ran the risk of alerting some solo or team. If one spotted them, they'd spread the word and – I mean, it's basically poking a stick into an ant nest."

"Alert one, alert the hive," murmured Ratchet. "Yes, I see that. But then why alert them through this attack at all?"

Rafael tapped his laptop. "Every computer has an anti-virus program," he said, "that keeps out things like trojans and malware. Certain programs can do live-checks on potential threats so they don't get the chance to infect the computer. Computers with sensitive information on them usually have multiple layers of protection. Think of the Avengers, the solos, and the other teams that way: as an anti-virus program with that live-check capacity. They're the city's, and in bigger sense the whole world's last resort firewall. SH.I.E.L.D's part of the firewall, too. The only way for a hacker to get into any system like that is to test it and see where any weaknesses in the coding or machine itself might be. The risk is alerting the system to your presence and giving it a chance to adapt, or the system kicking you out completely. I think the first option – that's what the Decepticons did here, and I think they did it _purpose_."

 _Testing the defenses..._

 _Unavoidable consequence._

 _What is he after?_

He eyed the boy keenly, "A calculated concomitant?" he mused. "What leads you to believe that?"

Rafael nodded eagerly, "Some hackers alert the system on purpose to learn how it adapts so they can counter the adaption in the future. It's super risky, and it's not a tactic used a lot because of the risk, but it can work if you know what you're doing."

"And we all know Megatron is not above taking absurd risks if it means a significant payoff," agreed his old friend in a derisive snort.

The whispers praised the boy's intellect. He was not above joining them. His words, however, he kept modest.

"Thank you for this input, Rafael," he smiled. "You have been very helpful."

Rafael returned the smile with a shy but proud one of his own. He turned and jogged back towards the command center.

Klaxons screamed.

Giving a cry of alarm, Rafael stumbled. In a frightened voice he demanded why the alarms were sounding.

"That's the old missile alert system!" Ratchet realized.

The old medic broke into a run. That particular siren sounding meant one thing: something was incoming from the air fast enough to alert the long range motion sensors atop the silo. Remotely he dampened the noise a few dozen decibels for Rafael's sake. However, he did not rush to join his friend. He knelt and gestured the boy into an open palm. Rafael, however startled, was quick to notice the discrepancy in responses.

"Why are you not running?" he demanded.

He managed an enigmatic, hopefully reassuring smile and answered, "There is no need."

* * *

"What do you mean it's not 'Cons?"

She was suspicious. The moving signal detected by the silo was busy flying low and slow over the nearby buttes, proving to her it was a systemic search or survey. It hadn't reached their base yet but it would eventually if it was searching one by one. The only ones who had an incentive to perform a search like this was the Decepticons. Would they have time to evacuate?

"It's not," Ratchet insisted in a perplexed voice. "While it is airborne, I can find no match to a Decepticon spark frequency, nor a frequency identifier of any kind."

So it wasn't Fowler. That only furthered her suspicion.

"You are not likely to," came the Prime's calm and collected baritone.

Ratchet turned to eye him as Optimus emerged from the hall he'd gone down earlier. "What?"

The old medic swore as the console suddenly erupted in what Jack liked to call "the blue screen of death," forcing his attention back to it. When he managed to reboot it, data was streaming in a download to an unknown holding base. When Ratchet tried to follow the stream the screen blinked red. No commands appeared to take. He swore again and kept trying.

"I-I'm locked out!" he realized.

"Soundwave!" she spat.

"No!" Jack exclaimed. "Wait! Ratchet, what's being downloaded?"

His optics scanned the flow. His panic seemed to abate and was replaced with confusion.

"The internet search history Optimus was using to research vigilante squadrons," he answered slowly, "and files from the S.H.I.E.L.D database he decrypted that detail certain individuals. Data's being collected on the in-built defenses of the silo as well, but nothing specifically about –"

" _Download complete."  
_

Ratchet jolted back at the polite, calm, distinctly British digitized voice that came from the console.

" _Administrative control: authorized. Disabling defenses. Disabling lock-down protocols..._ "

Faintly she registered the grumble of the blast doors opening. She drew her weapon, spun, and aimed it down at the tunnel's mouth.

"Hang on, Slender-Con can talk?" Miko wondered. "Since when?"

Rafael's wide grin alerted her. "That's not Soundwave..."

Her audials fixated on the sound of an engine coming from the tunnel, a sound that did not match the unique sound of any Decepticon she knew of. But it did match the engine of someone else she'd recently met. Her caution kept whispering that it could be a trap, that Soundwave could be synthesizing the sound to lower their guard. She did not heed it. Not this time. This time, she lowered her weapon – but she kept it deployed. Just in case. She would heed her caution that far.

When the sound of the old engine reached peak volume, a familiar figure rounded into sight: a man, wearing a brown leather riding jacket, an old pilot's helmet strapped over his head, and over the jacket she could see the straps that held the buckler shield in place on his back. But this time there was no red and blue beneath the jacket – simple civilian clothing had replaced it. His expression on sighting them morphed from wary to astonished in the time it took him to blink once. The motorcycle came to a rumbling halt. The stand was kicked down almost absentmindedly, the foot missing the first time. He stayed in the saddle for another few seconds, gawking in silence not at the group as a whole but the towering figure of the Prime. Then he seemed to come to his senses. He dismounted and removed the helmet. He noticed her weapon out and managed a shy, somewhat concerned smile, the wariness still plain in his sharp blue eyes.

A faint buzzing met her left audial. Nothing met her sight when she checked for the source.

"I suppose I should start out by apologizing," he said. "We would've knocked or rung but there was no doorbell and no knocker, so you forced Tony's hand. Jarvis will apologize too if he spooked any of you with the override –"

" _Indeed,_ " came the crisp digitized voice again.

"– but I promise we're not here to stir up trouble. So you can put the gun down, ma'am. No need to shoot the messenger. That's all I am."

For someone quick to jump into the fray he certainly knew how to be diplomatic. She disengaged the weapon. Astonishment once more crossed his face as the pistol reverted back to a slender hand, but it quickly disappeared. Almost too quickly. He was too _expectant_ she realized. Some expectancy was only natural, he having seen others in the field, but this spoke of further knowledge of them. Where would he have gotten it though? Anyone who worked with them was tight-lipped – and bribery didn't strike her as something he would resort to.

Despite the less than ceremonious entrance, Optimus was quick to accept his docile apology. As a matter of security they usually did not accept guests, he said, without them being pre-arranged through their liaison. In this particular case he would let that normally stringent protocol slide. Pre-arranging a meeting between parties was something their liaison would have refused outright. If he were present, he would no doubt order him to leave – or else arrest him.

At that statement, Miko decided to pipe in her two cents: "So how would Fowler arrest Jarvis then? Like, how would that work? Would he stick him on a pen drive or?"

Rogers' head whipped up to search for her voice. The quick adaption to surprise, she noted, did not occur as swiftly in this case. The expectation was absent.

"Miko!" Bulkhead hushed her.

The man glanced back towards the towering figure of the Prime, one eyebrow arcing up, "I don't suppose it'd be rude to ask why there're kids here?"

"Not at all," grunted Ratchet in his place, "but it's not strictly your concern. They're under our protection."

He seemed to debate arguing the why of it all. In the end the man decided to drop it. But she could see the curiosity burn in his crystal blue eyes when he stole another glance at the catwalks. The children, it seemed, he had not been expecting. The expectation concerning her squad mates was only natural she supposed – he had already seen Optimus and Knockout. There was something about that expectancy though that felt...unnatural. There was a difference in adaptability and expectancy, but a relation too.

"Ah, do you mind if I get some names?" he asked. "Just so I know whom I'm addressing."

Names were given.

"Those are some...unusual names."

The Prime offered a smile, "Your designations are as unusual to us as ours are to you."

"Fair enough," Rogers grinned.

"What? You're not gonna ask about the fact you're talking to giant robots that _aren't_ trying to kill you?" ridiculed Miko from her perch. "What is _wrong_ with you?!"

She had to hold back a smirk when the man flat-out ignored her.

"So...can Tony come in? He can cloak to prevent any spying eyes, and –"

"I can offer a groundbridge for simplicity's sake," Ratchet admitted in a begrudging tone. "That way, the signal the armor emits cannot be tracked directly here."

Rogers' head shook in bewilderment, "I...have no idea what you're talking about so I'll trust your judgement on that, sir."

"He'll know it when he sees it."

"Seriously, what are you guys?" a female voice piped up from near him. "The world's biggest robo-hermits? What's with the intense game of hide and seek?"

Ratchet's faceplates froze for a brief second in astonishment at the sight of the miniature female strolling on the soldier's shoulder. Then, infuriated incredulity marred the innocent astonishment.

"Wh-How did you get in?!"

Wasp smiled, "Duh! I shrunk down and followed some old shaft thingy. Air vent I think. It was easy, really. You might as well have left the front door o – oh my gosh!"

She abandoned her perch and flew over to Bumblebee.

"Steve! Look!" she cried. "I have a giant robot doppelgänger!"

* * *

Humans weren't so supposed to be so small from everything he'd ever read about them, and yet there she right in front of his faceplates – a tiny, bubbly, smiling yellow and black pixie with a nasty sting, gleefully complimenting him. Stunned, flabbergasted, indignant, Ratchet was unable to open a groundbridge, too focused was he on trying to rationalize the sight before him (or, knowing him, trying to come up with a retort to her words). He slipped behind him and pulled the lever, then drew away before the medic could respond. Through the tinkling roar of the groundbridge he detected another sound like a faintly screaming jet.

As drab as the slate grey armor was, Stark still somehow managed to make an entrance in it. He came in hard and fast, almost colliding with Bulkhead before veering a sharp right.

"Sorry! Sorry!"

After circling the main command center once he set the armor down a bit shakily. The helmet opened up bottom first, like a lid being lifted, to reveal the forty-something-old inside.

"Alright. Robots is one thing," he noted. "Robots that aren't trying to kill us and are actually friendly is another. What are you? S.H.I.E.L.D project? MRD? A.I.M project run amuck? One of Doom's pet projects?"

Lowering his door wings, he buzzed and trilled his mild offense at the word "robot." Stark looked his way in confusion.

"They're not robots, Mr. Stark," Rafael squeaked. "Robot implies they're receiving outside commands from a control unit. They're not."

Stark's head whipped back to stare, "You're _autonomous?_ "

He whistled and nodded alongside Optimus's confirmation. Stark let out an impressed whistle of his own.

"That's – wow – yeah – that sort of makes sense in hindsight. Matches Hank's find. Very impressive, those neural nets. So – who built you then? Machines can't build themselves."

"We were not forged on your world," hinted the Prime.

Probably smart he left it at that. The ideologically sensitive bit of being forged by a deified (who wasn't _actually_ a deity) planet could be left in the air. For now.

It took Stark just seconds to puzzle out the hint. "Wait, are you saying you're –"

Wasp gasped and accosted the mech in a flash, "No way! You guys are _aliens?_ And you're _not_ trying to conquer us or anything?"

He buzzed and waved his hands at her. No! Not in the least!

"They're the good guys, Wasp," Jack clarified. "They're here to help."

"Help?" Rogers repeated. "Help with what?"

"Defending your planet from invaders," Arcee explained tersely. "How is that you know about us but know nothing _about_ us?"

The soldier gave her a funny look as he translated her words. His source, he said, had not really been _concrete_ in her statements. She'd kept things to the absolute minimum and vague. He couldn't blame her. If it was found out she'd slipped him classified information in a good faith favor she could lose her job.

Arcee still seemed suspicious but she nodded.

"Where're the rest of you guys?" asked Bulkhead. "Half of you are missing."

"Back at base," Rogers told him. "I wanted to keep this as non-aggressive as possible. That's a lot easier to do in smaller numbers. And when an Asgardian, a Hulk, and an archer with bad manners aren't here to cause problems," he added.

Bulkhead stifled a snort. Smart, he noted.

"So...who're the invaders?" Wasp wondered. "How come we haven't heard of them?"

"You met some of their number today," Ratchet explained.

"The other machine-people I'm guessing? The ones that ran Cap off the road?"

"Exactly."

"So who are they?" Stark demanded.

"That is a long tale," Optimus warned. "I can provide data files for you conv–"

"Oh stories! I love stories!" she flew up to the Prime's faceplates. "Go on! We have time!"

When the Prime offered her a sad smile something in her bubbly personality seemed to check itself. She lowered onto a thoughtfully provided digit.

"...This isn't a fun story, is it?"

"No," he told her in a low, melancholy rumble, "but as you are now involved in the story, you must know it."

* * *

 **Author's Note: I know this is shorter, but I'm trying to be a little more dynamic in chapter lengths and stuff with this rework. Plus I'm busy D:**


	4. Chapter 4: Refugee Crisis

**Autobots, Assemble! Series 1**

Chapter 4: Refugee Crisis

* * *

The Avengers kept quiet for the tale, same as the kids had, but their expressions had visibly changed as it had gone on. Now, as the tale came to an end, they were fixed. Captain Rogers' expression was pained and sympathetic; Wasp was utterly horrified, her hands over her mouth to hide her gasp. Even Stark, renowned for lacking the same emotional capacity as some of his team mates, appeared deeply bothered by the story of their conflict. It was different, very different, than the reactions the children had had, but these were fully fledged adults they were dealing with, not their offspring. Adults had more experience with the world. They had an easier time understanding things like political turmoil and mass-scale warfare, and their minds could understand the implications of such things better than an adolescent's mind could.

"You lost your whole _planet_ to this war?" the soldier breathed.

The Prime bowed his helm.

"You guys aren't just opposing sides, then," Wasp murmured. "You're refugees. All of you. Even the bad guys. You can't go home because there's no home left to go back to."

"The intensity of the conflict left our world a husk," confirmed Optimus. "There is nothing left of our home."

"He's not exaggerating," Jack said quietly. "I saw it myself."

Stark eyeballed him sharply. Jack evaded having to answer by saying "it was a while ago" and "it was complicated." It didn't remove all of the man's curious suspicion, but it did at least seem to delay it for another time and place. She knew keeping Stark from that kind of information was like keeping Miko from her daily adrenaline quota: trying to avoid the problem usually led to it happening at the worst possible moment. He'd have to be told the finer details; an impatient man like him wouldn't let the question hang indefinitely. Stark was the type to resort to hasty snooping, she suspected, and the last thing she wanted was him interrogating her partner behind her backstrut. Better now than later, she concluded. She eyed Jack, then Optimus, quickly. Each nodded imperceptibly, deciphering the look in her optics. Casting a look back at the man, she transferred to his suit a data file with a cursory overview of hers and Jack's observations on Cybertron. She couldn't see his expression when the helmet came up to display his HUD, but something imperceptible changed in his posture, she noticed. When the helmet came open and retracted again, his eyes had hardened from chocolate to bronze. She wasn't sure if Stark could feel in the same way as Captain Rogers or Miss Van Dyne, but he certainly seemed far more agitated than he had just a few moments ago. His mouth was a flat line as his head shook.

"Isn't there any way we can...I don't know, talk to them?" Rogers wondered. "They may be better equipped, but at the end of the day they're in the same boat."

"Are you serious?" Bulkhead demanded in incredulity, almost laughing. "Is he serious?" he repeated, pointing at the man while staring at the others.

Ratchet snorted derisively, "You could certainly try, but you'd either be blasted or mashed to a paste before you could get one word out. Megatron is not interested in negotiation, not unless it favors him, and he certainly won't negotiate with those he sees as pests or vermin. The only one he respects enough to entertain with a serious conversation is Optimus, and but he has become less and less interested in discussion as the centuries have gone by."

It wasn't just Captain Rogers who eyed the Prime curiously. Optimus did not bother to conceal the pain in his expression.

"Are you sure there's nothing we can do that might help?" asked the young woman softly. "Even something tiny? We're open to suggestions."

"We want to help," Rogers agreed. "Consider it an apology for one of ours attacking you by accident."

"Thor says he's sorry by the way," chirped Wasp.

"Name it and I can make it happen," Stark added. "Anything."

Ratchet harrumphed, "Unless you can reactive a comatose planet –"

"Okay, maybe not _anything,_ " the man admitted reluctantly, "but if you give me enough time I could probably figure something out for that little problem, too. Two-hundred plus IQ level, multiple PhD's in electrical and mechanical engineering here, doc. I could probably fix _you_ if I really wanted to."

"Really," Ratchet deadpanned. "I doubt that. Do you have millennia worth of expertise in the field of bio-mechanics or Cybertronian physiology?"

The armored man gave what was most likely supposed to be an innocent shrug that said "fair point," but it came out seeming a little unabashedly arrogant and smug instead.

"Tony," Rogers said in a sighing groan, " _please_ don't start a one-upping contest with the giant space doctor."

She had to hide a smile behind her hand. Right then, he didn't sound like the team leader addressing a colleague – he sounded like a beleaguered father tactfully telling a child to stop talking.

Optimus seemed to unbend a little at their light-hearted humor. He shared a sideways look at Ratchet, who tilted his helm and shrugged as a silent exchange of glyphs commenced. He was, to her surprise, more hesitant about this than she had realized, and not because he was wary of upsetting Fowler it seemed; the liaison's aversion to an alliance was not based entirely on bias and paranoia, rather out of a desire to keep them all safe. Associating with them would mean inadvertently sharing their respective enemies. But a hand had already been extended to them, and to turn away their generosity – an olive branch, he suspected, after Thor's unintentional targeting of him in New York – it would be nothing short of rude. Ratchet, always the skeptic, wasn't sure what they could offer them in terms of aid (other than more electrical burns). The look in the Prime's optics said he already had an idea.

"There is something you could do for us," he admitted, "that would not immediately raise any outside suspicions."

Wasp, eager and happy, pounced, "Really? What?"

He turned to the armored man, "Mr. Stark, your satellites are advanced compared to the ones granted to us by your government. Would you be willing to lend a small number of them for our use?"

There were obviously any number of possible answers going through the man's head at that particular moment, and that hadn't been one of them. He was taken aback at the question, and suddenly suspicious, too. So long as they weren't converted to giant space guns, he said, he had no problem loaning a few to them.

"We would not be weaponizing them," Ratchet assured him, "merely using them as additional eyes or else for improved geographic accuracy when using the groundbridge."

He gave in under the assertion, "Alright. But with your hard-line set-up here, I can't wirelessly have them re-sync to your computers – that would be the easy, fast, risky way. Someone could hijack the signal coming in from the satellites and then there goes your hiding spot. I'll need to get up there, bring them down, and then I'll haul them in and let you reconfigure them to your set-up before taking them back up. How many do you need exactly? Two? Three?"

The man's casual comment about blasting into space, hauling satellites down from orbit, then sending them back up as if it were something he did every other week-end left her speechless. Where had they been when they'd needed to take down the Decepticon spacebridge, or gone to Cybertron? And how in the Allspark had his satellites, or the Avengers, never spotted the Nemesis after all this time? The warship's cloak was only electromagnetic, not visual.

Optimus continued as if the comment was completely natural, "Thank you, three would be enough for our purposes. Any more than that –"

"Could cause some unwanted suspicion," he finished. "Jesus, you really are dead set on this whole hide-and-seek shtick, aren't you?"

The smile Optimus gave after that statement of his was as close to genuinely amused as she had seen during her time with him.

"I suggest you return to New York. Before your allies grow concerned," advised the Prime.

' _Yeah, and before a certain bad-tempered government agent decides to show up unannounced and have a stroke,_ ' she thought in sour humor.

"Ratchet, could you assist them?"

"I would if I had exact geographic coordinates for their base," he harrumphed.

"Easily fixed! Jarvis? Lend the old doc a hand, would you?"

" _Certainly._ "

"Who are you calling old?" the medic protested.

"I mean, you _are_ , aren't you?" Wasp chirped innocently. "Didn't you just say so? 'Millennia worth of experience' and all that?"

Flustered, Ratchet seemed more than happy to accept the coordinates Jarvis provided and have Captain Rogers shepherd the two through the groundbridge, wearing a smile that said he wasn't _completely_ repentant about Wasp's on-the-nose retort, but there was still a glimmer of apology in his crystal blue eyes. She had a pretty good idea where that glimmer came from, almost unaware she was smirking at them as they left. But when the portal closed behind them, she was surprised that she felt more than a little disappointed at their departure. They were a risk in the grand sense and yet she was still sorry to see them go. She wasn't the only one; Jack had the same gleam of disappointment in his blue-grey eyes when she examined him.

"I still don't think this is wise, Optimus," Ratchet grumbled. "It's only a matter of time before Fowler learns of this little arrangement you've made and blows a gasket."

"I am fully aware of that," the Prime reminded him. "In light of his orders, I will adhere to his wishes and keep them at a distance. For now. Allowing them nearer in the future may not only be necessary, but unavoidable. Megatron may very well target them again, and that attack I suspect will not be so restrained. This attack was an experiment. A test. Any following assault will be in earnest."

"You really think he'll go after them again?" Miko demanded. "But they've already proven they can fight back and win!"

"Precisely why he will attack again. He knows for certain that they pose a tangible threat to him now, and so he will endeavor to remove that threat before it can create a significant danger to him."

Miko grinned fiercely, "Ha! Then King 'Con really isn't very smart, is he? I bet Thor could knock the whole ship outta the sky if he wanted! That'd be _so_ cool to watch!"

"You've got a good point," her guardian agreed through a grin. "Messing with Thor seems like a really dumb idea. Him and the Hulk could probably knock out half the 'Cons for us."

"Heck yeah!" the girl cheered. "And Iron Man and Jarvis could give Slender-Con a run for his money!"

She saw Optimus jolt imperceptibly at their comments.

"Optimus?" she pressed.

"He is not threatened by the Avengers as a whole," he murmured. "He is threatened only by the members who could pose a direct threat to his forces and assets."

"That could explain Knockout's inconstant attack pattern," Ratchet stated eagerly. "The ones who were not deemed significant enough suffered only minor injuries. Iron Man on the other hand bore damages of greater severity in line with his abilities and equipment. In that case, I suppose we should be thankful it was only the armor that was damaged, not the pilot. Thor was unharmed only because they were wise enough to run from him."

"Not like they could've really done him much harm anyway," her partner said. "I mean, they _are_ dealing with an Asgardian prince who fights fire demons and ice giants for fun. That's not exactly someone you should be getting into a firefight with if you know what's good for you."

That was fair enough, she supposed in private, but removing such a threat would mean a greater reward of never having to deal with it again. Such a line of reasoning was probably the one Megatron was going to use or was already using. Getting rid of the big guns meant getting rid of the littler guns later on was just that much simpler. But that thought trail had a major flaw: superheroes weren't exactly island groups. They had alliances and friendships beyond their squadrons or beyond themselves. Attacking one team or individual could incur the anger of another group or individual who was allied with them, and then one grouped with that group or individual, until you had a reactionary web of powder kegs that could easily get out of hand. If these were regular old soldiers in a war, that wouldn't be a problem for Megatron; he'd crushed such responses before with depressing consistency. But these were enemies with the capacity to rip a building or two at the seams, conjure storms, read minds, cast powerful spells – the list went on. Even if you were exceptionally smart about it, these weren't enemies you wanted to be picking fights with because of the inter-connection they employed.

"...I really don't think he thought this through..." she muttered.

"Why?" her partner wondered.

"Because unless he has some magical 'remove the big dangers all at once' card he can play, taking out someone like Thor or Iron Man would cause a returning strike way worse than they could accomplish on their own. Messing with hero squads and solo operators is like messing with a line of dominoes, I think – hit one, and the rest will follow."

"Except those dominoes don't fall," her partner added, "they get angry and fight back."

"So what – Megatron will back off?" Miko asked. "Pfft!"

"I do not believe he will distance himself, no," Optimus agreed. "Megatron's confidence in his power means he has never and will never shy from a challenge to that power. But he will become more tactful and cautious in his efforts, as I believe he must be aware of the inter-connectivity of his new targets – he would not have risked this experimental attack otherwise. This was a testing of the waters."

"We can do something though, right?" Rafael squeaked.

"I am afraid that, at the moment, no," he told the boy. "The most we can do is monitor their activity in the hopes of clarification."

* * *

 **Author's Note: I apologize for this being so short, but again I'm experimenting with chapter length with this series more so than in my others. Some of the 'bot chapters will be long or short, and some of the human chapters will be long or short. It's far more variable, and I kinda like it. :)  
**


	5. Chapter 5: Hunting Party

**Autobots, Assemble! Series 1**

Chapter 5: Enemy Thine

* * *

There were certain solar cycles that he trusted Megatron to be sensible in his actions, made clear from his temperament. Starscream usually offered a gauge. If Megatron was able to tolerate the grey Seeker, that was a solar cycle he could conceivably trust the former gladiator to be strategic in his decisions. If the two were fighting, or if Starscream had fled into hiding for a few hours, that was an indicator of a far more volatile mind – decisions in that state tended to be less sound, although there were anomalies that appeared every so often to the pattern. Sometimes he could be highly volatile and still be coldly strategic. Other times he could be near completely devoid of emotion and decide on something utterly absurd.

He wasn't quite sure what label this solar cycle fell under.

Attacking the Avengers had seemed rather sudden, no one on the ship would deny that – he had overheard some of the troopers discussing it as he had slunk to the medbay to remove the obnoxious arrowheads embedded in his plating and polish away the burn. Megatron had known of them for some time but had never bothered with them before. They had never bothered him, and so he had never bothered them. He suspected the recent sojourn to New York had forced the realization that the powered humans couldn't be brushed aside any longer. If their war meant they were going to be wandering into their operating territories, knowing how to fight them had become a priority. There were strategic ways of doing so: the city was covered in security cameras; the internet held no shortage of video and news reports, and hacking police radio frequencies was sparkling's play for someone as skilled as Soundwave. That, on the whole, had been the sound decision. Some, indeed, Soundwave had labeled a genuine threat due to the nature of their abilities, so keeping a distance until the ideal time had been his suggestion. He had accepted those ideas, but rather than be tactical about these people, Megatron had decided a direct attack had been the best way to gather information on them. And rather than send his SIC, he'd sent _him_. The slagging medic.

That final decision, he was pretty sure, had been made out of a vindictive spite, a way of getting back at him for his failure to retrieve the Phase Shifter. Why he hadn't sent Starscream was beyond him. Seeing an older model fighter jet in New York city limits might've caused a few heads to turn, but that was nothing compared to some of the stuff the city saw on a regular basis.

There was absolutely no strategic reason to frag off the Avengers. They knew they existed now. And if _they_ knew, soon enough the other heroes would be aware too.

"Engage the Avengers, he said," he grumbled. " _They won't hurt you,_ he said. Tell that to the three arrowheads, the electrical burn, and the dead troopers, smart-aft."

"Is it wise to be name-calling him?" a raspy voice wondered. "Soundwave can hear everything on this ship, you know."

He didn't know when the voice's owner had arrived nor did he really care. He barely gave the Seeker a sideways glance, "Oh shut it, Starscream. You're guilty of _far_ worse."

Starscream said nothing.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"What do _I_ want?"

"If you're here, you want something. Spit it out or leave. I have preening to do."

"I wanted your opinion."

"On what exactly?"

"On whether you think Megatron has lost his senses again."

He was silent for a while. He shook his helm in the end, confessing, "Honestly, no matter how I feel about it, I'd have to say no. He's been somewhat impulsive like this before. But he's never blindly impulsive. If he acts suddenly, he's planned for it well ahead of time. Unlike you."

The Seeker scowled at him, "You think this was done strategically, then? Like I do?"

He turned towards him then, "You mean he hasn't told you anything?"

Starscream scowled again and ignored the question. That was answer enough. Maybe Megatron had finally realized that keeping his SIC informed of his plans had generally proven to be a poor health choice over the millennia.

The Seeker came in and leaned against the wall, arms folded, "Do _you_ have any idea what the attack was about? You were involved. You were there. He did give you orders, didn't he?"

"His only orders were to attract their attention and assess how they responded, to acquire scans of that shield and the Panther's weapons, and to acquire either if it all possible."

"His first order was to attract their attention?" hemmed Starscream. "Interesting." _  
_

"Oh, _you_ can be impartial about it," he snarled back. "You're not the one who had to run a seventy-year-old steroid experiment off the road and slag off all his friends in the process! Did I mention I was electrocuted by a Norse god? _Because I was electrocuted by a Norse god!_ " he shoved the affected limb, still bearing a trace of its blackened scorch, in the grey Seeker's face indignantly.

Starscream rolled his optics, "There's no need to be _theatrical_ , you know," he started then, suddenly, "Wait..."

"What?"

"The list of orders. The very first one was to attract their attention? Did you change the order when you recounted them?"

"N-no."

The Seeker removed himself from the wall and began a signature stroll around the chamber, smirking with his hands clasped behind his backstrut like some wily academic plotting to poison his colleagues and steal their ideas for his own (Pit, for all he knew Starscream had actually done such a thing). That he did not immediately speak irritated him. His biggest pet peeve with the Seeker was not his tendency to not take care himself adequately, though that was a constant irk, but his obnoxious joy in toying with others. He was doing it then and there and he wasn't even trying to be subtle about it – but then again Starscream had never been one for subtlety in the centuries he had known him.

He got impatient and snapped at him to talk. He didn't have all day to watch him struct around like a peacock in his lab.

"Being so theatrical yourself I'm amazed you haven't figured it out yet. It's a very basic thing: when attracting the attention of one group, you attract the attention of another. Whether this is accident or intentional all depends, but this mess today was as much strategy as it was pure theatrics. He didn't want the Avengers' attention only. No, no, no. That's far too simple. He wanted another party's attention, too."

"Which party?"

Starscream snorted and scoffed. How was he supposed to know that? The number of enemies the Avengers alone had was breathtaking.

" _Starscream, Knockout, report to the_ _bridge_."

* * *

"I am not sure," the suave German man purred, "whether to treat you as an ally or foe. Normally I would applaud the efforts of others who seek to remove my enemies, but your efforts to eliminate the Avengers today were...comical at best. And I have very little tolerance for amateurs with a sense of humor."

Supervillains, Megatron decided, were much like predators. Some were like wolves, willing to cooperate to take down their prey. Others were like lions who took offense at the encroach on their hunting grounds, who struck back at any who tried to take their prey from them. They were an assorted group, these particular hunters, as colorful as their prey. Their leader was far from the most intimidating or powerful member but he seemed to ooze authority over the others. The circlet of gold on his masked head and the fine furs lining his neck and shoulders spoke of someone high-born. Baron Zemo he called himself, leader of the Masters of Evil (the name could do with some work in his opinion). They had one goal: take out their enemies, the Avengers.

He loomed over Zemo, "You think that was a failed attempt at removal? Hardly. That was merely reconnaissance. If I wanted them out of the way, Baron, they would be dead. In case you have not taken note, I have a warship and an army at my disposal."

The Baron leaned onto one leg, arms folded and looked up at him, completely unyielding, "And yet you neglected to use those resources."

"I'm sorry," came Starscream's provocative sneer, "Have you _seen_ what happens to invaders trying to conquer your planet in overt efforts?"

"...So that is your goal."

Zemo's voice had become icier. There was a clear ring of hostility in it, a sharp contrast to the domineering, haughty, sneering purr he had used moments ago. He was a lion now, not a wolf.

"Kings do not share their kingdoms," said Zemo in a soft growl.

"A wise king would know to seize alliances where he can in order to preserve his kingdom."

"And a wiser king knows that alliances can shift at a moment's notice, that trust can be feigned."

"He's not wro-hong..." mumbled Knockout in a faint song-like lilt.

"Silence!"

The medic obeyed.

"You do _not_ wish to be my enemy, Baron," he growled at the man. "Entire worlds have been crushed beneath me. Yours has only proven more difficult to quell, not infallible."

"You seem oddly interested in an alliance," the grey-skinned man said, lifting one of his folded arms to gesture with an open palm, "Why? You have more resources than we have ever had at our disposal. Why so intent on adding us to the arsenal, _hein_? Are we not outdated by comparison? Mere novelties?"

Not for the first time that day he swallowed his pride, "Because, quite simply, such an endeavor requires a certain... _finesse_ titans like myself are incapable of on a world so... _small_. Covert action is virtually impossible for us. You are natives. You are capable of such covert action."

Grey Gargoyle inclined his head, "Ah."

He turned back to the Baron, "You, Zemo, are interested in removing the Avengers. They stand in the way of your ambitions. I seek to remove my opposition, claim victory in this war, and revive our home. I have no desire to rule over ants."

"Ants? You are not doing much to win us to your cause, _ispolin_ ," grumbled the man in the domed exo-suit. "You say you would appreciate our help, then insult us."

"Insult? You forget you are surrounded by giants, Dynamo. I am merely observing the difference in heights."

"If you are going to use examples, machine," argued Zola through that horrid, quadrate display monitor, "at least keep the size ratio in mind. It would be more accurate to describe us as mice."

"The point still stands," he retorted in a brief burst of impatience.

"No, no. I agree. And that is why you are interested in us? We can access places you cannot."

"Precisely."

"I cannot _believe_ you are debating working with a _machine_ ," the sole female in the group hissed. "Have you no standards, Baron Zemo?"

"You work with one already, Enchantress," Zemo reminded her through that domineering purr of his.

"Zola?" she guessed, sneering. "Hmph! I only tolerate his unnatural presence due to his association with you. There is at least a man's mind inside that atrocity he calls a body. These machines are different. What makes you think their goal is not to simply use us, to kill us once they have what they want from us? What leads you to think they will keep their end of this alliance? A machine that cannot be controlled cannot be trusted."

He could handle her haughty grandstanding no more. He lifted one trod into the air and brought it down on top of her. Shrieking, her hands went into the air as the man standing near her dove and put his own hands up, grunting. He felt energy jolt through his field, saw yellow tendrils of it grab the trod and force it to remain airborne. Down the limb was pushed against their efforts. Hand and spell tried to push back harder, but he felt them buckle. Abomination and Dynamo made to rush. The limb was removed. The woman fell to her knees, panting. Her axe-wielding male partner helped her up.

"I am no mere machine, witch," he growled. "You would do well to remember that."

Bright, burning green eyes glared at him sparking like open wires. Energy swirled around her clenched fists. After a moment, the energy dispersed.

"I still do not trust you," she hissed.

One brow ridge arced up, "Did I ever say that was required?"

"He's got a point..." muttered Chemistro. "Just 'cause someone works with ya don't mean ya gotta trust 'em. I don't trust frog-face not to eat me," he added, jerking a thumb at the hulking hybrid. He flinched when Abomination growled and hefted a fist.

The woman ignored them both. She brought one hand into the air, the yellow-green energy consuming it in the most spectacular display yet. One wrong move, she warned, and she would disassemble him. He would be surprised, she said, how quickly magic could tear apart a body of metal and wire. Briefly it crossed his mind to return her threat; Knockout might be interested to dissect an Asgardian at any rate. Which one would hardly matter overall. But dissecting organic species was always such a foul, messy affair. His resources could be devoted to other endeavors. Cleaner ones. And making an enemy of Asgard would be a foolish decision. Amorra herself was far from the most powerful individual, but Soundwave had reason to suspect she harbored a soft spot for the realm's prince, Thor, whose own alliances would prove dangerous.

"Trust me however little or however much you like, witch," he told her. "Our goals intersect. The Avengers are now not only your problem, but mine. They are an interconnected force. It would be wisest to remove them before they have a chance to retaliate. I refuse to be defeated in this war, and you refuse to let them defeat you. Would it not be prudent to align until our shared enemy is removed, rather than to fight them individually?"

"Enemy of my enemy, is it?" mused Zola. "Hm. Rather cliche, I will admit, but –"

"The idea has merit. Cooperation is in our best combined interests," Zemo agreed. "We accept your offer. For now. Consider this an exploratory venture."

"So," Megatron prompted. "What moronic strategy did you have as a plan to remove them this time?"

* * *

Knockout was happy to be back in his lab. Something on the bridge hadn't felt right, making him tense and suspicious and causing a curious stiffening and flaring of everyone's plating. He hadn't detected anything on scanners, but he suspected the Enchantress was the culprit. He had no idea of the full extent of her magic, but according to Soundwave she was an expert at arcane emotional manipulation. Her spells were meant to toy with one's feelings. And what better means of proving her point that "machines couldn't be trusted" than to subtly make those machines aggressive while she was there?

"I'm not sure about all this."

"Why? What's not to like? They're doing most of the work for us."

"For one," he said, "that Asgardian femme is trouble. I think it was her magic that was messing with my emotional centers on the bridge, and it may have affected Lord Megatron as well. Her alliances seem suspect to me. I don't trust magic for that matter either, especially the kind of magic that messes with a mech's helm like that."

"Are you sure you aren't simply being paranoid?" the Seeker wondered idly.

"Says the paranoiac," he snipped.

"I am _not_ paranoid! I-I am merely suspicious. So what is the problem?"

"Megatron is the problem."

"Eh?"

"Enemy thine," he reminded him.

"Thine? Thine's not a word," Starscream scoffed. "You made that up."

"Clearly you've never seen a performance of Shakespeare," retorted the medic in a huff. Starscream gave him a peculiar look. "What?" he wondered. "I'm _allowed_ to like theatrical performances, you know! It's not a _crime_."

"The Seeker's posture shifted. "You think this alliance is a mistake, then. Is that it?"

"Not a mistake. There's intelligence in aligning with people who have the home field advantage. I just don't like the idea of trusting people like the Enchantress. Magic isn't something we can defend against if she decides she wants to remove us. I trust Zemo even less. He's the kind to play us while we try to play him. And, call me crazy, but I think that's exactly what he'll end up doing. Just look at his crazy power struggle with Baron Strucker for command of Hydra. I'd even venture to say he's less trustworthy than _you_ , and that's saying something."

"I'll endeavor to ignore that insult..." Starscream muttered. "If you are so concerned, why not voice that concern to Soundwave or Megatron?"

"Voice what to me, Starscream?"

He jumped. Starscream jumped with him. The grey monster of a form that was Megatron entered the lab.

Starscream stammered out, "Knockout is merely concerned about the... _cohesion_ of this plan you have, my lord. Supervillains can work together, that's proven via their own teams, but they also have a bad habit of stabbing each other in the back if it means they don't have to share the rewards."

"Which is precisely why I have Soundwave monitoring them," he said calmly. "I know well enough of Zemo and Amorra's reputation for subterfuge. To either of them, their allies are pawns to be placed and played in a game of Titan's Gambit. I know well enough he sees me as a means to an end, and I believe he knows I view him in the same way. You would be surprised how efficient it is when two individuals attempt to use one another, often ending up with the exact goal they wished to attain from the start."

"I still think that's a bit of a gamble..." he muttered.

He expected to be yelled at, but Megatron only offered a strangely amiable smirk in his direction, "Is it gambling when your success rate is higher than that of failure? No. It is a matter of statistics, Knockout. Their task is to remove the Avengers. Our task is to cripple S.H.I.E.L.D to prevent any retaliation. You needn't worry about the means yet. For now, we will resume ordinary operations. The Autobots must not be alerted to this alliance before it is time."

With that, he made to leave the lab. Right on the threshold he paused, "Oh, and Starscream? Do not get any bright ideas. I will know if you decide on any underhanded dealings or enact any clandestine contacts."

"Y-yes, master."

Knockout couldn't help smirking, ' _Well, maybe he is learning not to trust him._ '

* * *

 **God, I am so sorry for this wait! I got so swept up in NotB that I neglected this! D:**


End file.
